The General's Son
by gallifrey calls now
Summary: Ezar is a teenaged boy from the Imperial City driven to conquer the world with offhanded quips and sharp remarks. Ezar is unlucky enough to be captured as he is entering Skyrim. Ezar is Dragonborn. Ezar is also General Tullius' son. Tough luck, Ezar.


Plot bunnies for life

The cart jostled Ezar into wakefulness, dark brown eyes fluttering open. Confused at the sight of his bound hands, the Imperial boy looked around, instantly noticing the colder air nipping away at his exposed skin, the only source of warmth being the large mammoth of a Nord on his right whose shoulder he was pressed against. Really, they needed to make the carts more spacious if they were going to put four prisoners together in the same space. Prisoners of what exactly, Ezar didn't know, but he assumed that the one in the blue uniform was part of that rebel group his father had left home to quell.

"Hey, you," the blond one in front of him said. "You're finally awake."

Ezar looked at him and studied him closely. Tall, well built, blonde, blue eyes – typical Nord, alright.

Undeterred by the boy's scrutiny, the man continued. "You were trying to cross the border, right?" the man asked. "Walked right into that Imperial ambush. Same as us. And that thief over there!"

That said, they all turned to the only dark-haired Nord on the cart, who scowled. "Damn you Stormcloaks. Skyrim was fine until you came along. The Empire was nice and lazy. If it hadn't been for you, I would've stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell," the thief continued, before looking at Ezar. "You there! You and me, we shouldn't be here."

"As I gather it, it's me who shouldn't be here," Ezar replied, frowning slightly. "You're a thief. I'm just a civilian."

"Oh please," the thief snorted, "spare me the dramatics."

"I'm not being dramatic," Ezar said, suddenly feeling defensive. "I'm just saying it as I see it."

"They're probably going to let you go, too," the thief grumbled. "You're not even a man yet, Imperial too."

Ezar shrugged. "Not my fault I'm barely fifteen."

"Fifteen?" the Nord opposite him said. "I'd have put you closer to seventeen."

"Thanks," Ezar replied. "I guess."

"Shut up back there!" the Imperial soldier driving the cart said, throwing them a dirty look.

After a moment of silence, the thief looked at the one on Ezar's right and asked, "What's wrong with him, huh?"

He hadn't even noticed. The man had not only his hands tied, but his mouth was secured by a rag, keeping him from speaking.

"Watch your tongue!" the blond one snapped. "You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak! The true High King!"

"You mean this is the guy my father's risking his life against?" Ezar asked, studying the bear of a man's face, meeting the blue eyes. "I can definitely see him killing a King," he stated offhandedly.

The Nord opposite him kicked him in the shin and Ezar stifled a yelp. "Watch it," the blond growled.

"Hey, you started this war!" Ezar defended himself.

"Oh, now you sound like _him_," the blond grumbled in reply.

"Him?" Ezar prompted him, curious.

"General Tullius," the other supplied, "the military governor. There he is." He pointed with his chin towards a tan Imperial as they entered the town. "And the Thalmor are with him too. Bet they had something to do with this."

"He looks impressive," Ezar muttered, looking at his father's armour intently.

"He's all talk and no bite," the blond replied bitterly. "Shows what scum the Empire produces."

"Hey – what's your name?" Ezar asked.

"Ralof. You?"

"Ezar. Pleased to meet you, Ralof," with those words Ezar kicked the blond's shin in return, except twice as hard, "I'm the kind of scum the Empire produces. How do you do."

Ralof looked at him in indignation for a moment, before chortling. "I kind of like you, though. There's fire in there."

"Whatever you say," Ezar agreed, "as long as you agree I'm better."

"Why are we stopping?" the thief asked, suddenly panicking.

"What do you think?" Ralof returned. "End of the line."

"No, no, no, no, no, no," the thief muttered in quick succession, chin drawn to his chest and eyes closed in panic.

"Empire loves their damned lists," Ralof said, sneering at an Imperial soldier with a large book in his hand.

"Well, how else are we supposed to keep track of things?" Ezar replied sensibly. "Remember them? Occasionally forget important things because of your deep seated hatred of lists? Wow, no wonder you're losing, what with your lack of organization," the Imperial teen said, rolling his eyes. At the front of the line, the Imperial soldier choked a bit before dissolving in a fit of hysterical giggles at Ezar's deadpan response. As his Captain glared at him, the soldier cleared his throat before calling out, "Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm," voice still cracking a bit. Thinking about it, Ezar supposed he could have quipped something about puberty but smartly decided not to anger his people. Instead, he craned his neck to search for his father. Damned Imperials were so short compared with Altmer and Nords. It made it difficult to spot the General underneath Elenwen's towering frame.

"Ralof of Riverwood," by now, the soldier had sobered up and was looking at Ralof with sad eyes, and Ezar abruptly realized that most of these people had grown up together, and were now mortal enemies.

Without a word, Ralof joined his Jarl in front of the assorted audience that had gathered. Realizing his turn would come soon, Ezar's neck craned even more desperately in search of his admittedly slightly uptight father.

"Lokir of Rorikstead."

"No, I'm not a rebel, you can't do this!" Lokir said, suddenly sprinting away, "you can't catch me!"

The Imperial Captain was having none of it. "Archers," she ordered harshly, and the men surrounding the area drew their bowstrings and released simultaneously, arrows imbedding themselves into the poor thief.

The Captain turned around and snarled at him. "Anyone else feel like running?"

"Hey… you. Who are you?" the soldier with the list asked, confused, turning the pages of his book furiously. "Captain, he's not on the list."

"Whatever shall we do without the list?" Ezar asked, upturned lips hiding the rising panic of his father's absence. _Now_ he decides to skip work?!

"Forget the list, he goes to the block," the Captain replied offhandedly, turning around.

"By your orders, Captain," the soldier replied mournfully. "I'm sorry," he said, "I'll make sure your remains return to the Imperial City."

"Like hell you will!" rang the General's outraged voice. Everyone turned to see the esteemed General Tullius stomp over to them angrily, hands curling into dangerous fists and eyes promising pain and retribution to anyone opposing him.

"…General?" the Captain, asked, unsure. Even the Thalmor were looking on in slight, hidden confusion; Elenwen had crossed her arms and was studying the General intently. Unfortunately for them, the tactical genius paid them no attention, instead focusing on the fifteen year old boy before him. "What," Tullius hissed dangerously, "in _Oblivion_ are you doing here?"

Surrounded by confused stares from all sides, Imperial and Stormcloak alike, Ezar grimaced, lips twitching. "Uh," he replied eloquently, "hi, dad."


End file.
